Ending is a process
we haven’t yet begun, afraid of how
it is said to sting,
so save yourself
the luxury of suffering, the quiet
gratification of misery that comes with
having a shadow tied to
these hundred pounds of flesh and fluid;

it’s a privilege we’ll reclaim
in the land where we surrendered
our souls for bodies, a hundred and
eighty degrees from

here. There

is nothing like justice, nor
solitude, only us,
walking the world with
pockets empty of promises;

and maybe that means we’re waiting
on something sacred, holding on
to precious handfuls of dirt
and dreams, while our angels sleep
in concrete shells and the sun
is a pendulum oscillating
between horizons, waiting
for someone to decide
that we aren’t lost;
this is only the beginning.

Walking_Away (jannelandet)Note: After sitting on this poem for almost 4 months, I think it finally feels settled, with the middle two words hinging two halves of equal length. Yay word counts!

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